Johanna Lindsey - Savage Thunder

"Not tried. The door wasn't locked. I didn't wait around to see it open, but I've little doubt it did."

"What about your guards?"

"There was only one, and I'm afraid he might be dead. That noise I heard—"

He didn't wait for her to finish, but let go of her to shove his revolver into her hand. Nor did he waste time telling her what to do with it. "Stay here," was all he said.

"But where are you going?"

Stupid question, since he had already leaped up to grasp the porch roof and in mere seconds was up and over it — and gone. Jocelyn looked out at the empty moonlit street, at the shadowed hotel porch — which she was standing on, since it did extend beyond the building — at the revolver in her hand.

It was long-barreled and heavy, not at all like her little derringer. She had never used this type of weapon, and doubted she could at the moment, with her fingers still smart-ing from holding onto the roof.

The gun dragged at her arm after another few mo-ments, so she cradled it while she waited, staring up at the end of the roof. She just barely made out the jagged remains of the corner support post that had once stood where she had assumed it would be, but at some time or other was broken off and never re-placed. She felt better seeing that, and knowing she hadn't been a complete dolt in her impromptu plan-ning. But she didn't once think about following through with her own plan now that she was on the ground, of heading back to the stable and the safety it offered. Colt had said to stay there and so she stayed right there.

The room wasn't empty. There were two men inside it, both riffling through the duchess's trunks, care-lessly scattering her gowns and belongings on the floor around them. One had found a jewelry case and was trying to pry the lock open with a small knife, while the other was on his knees with his head buried in the largest trunk. Neither of them gave a thought to the window that Colt entered silently. Their only concern was the door, which they glanced at nervously once or twice before Colt reached them.

It was over within seconds, the heavy lid of the large truck slamming down on the head of one man just as he rose with some find in his fist, and Colt's foot connecting with the jaw of the other — which was a mistake. His foot throbbing, he cursed fluently for not making use of his knife instead, which had been palmed and ready. But he did not nee^ it now, with both men out cold.

With disgust he limped to the bed to inspect his foot for any serious damage, but no sooner had he sat down than Jocelyn's scent assailed him and he leaped up with another round of curses. He was mad enough at that moment to slit both men's throats, but sanity prevailed. It wasn't their fault he had spent half the night standing in the shadows across the street, nursing a bottle of rotgut and staring at her window like a lovesick fool, imagining a half-dozen fantasies that could come true if he chose to make use of that open window.

It had taken a battle royal with his conscience to keep him from crossing the street. So he was natu-rally furious that after his conscience had won, he was here anyway, in her room, and inflamed by the fact that she was below waiting on him.

There was the slim hope that she wouldn't be there, that she would have immediately sought out the rest of her guard to inform them of what had happened. But by the time he returned and found she had obeyed him instead, he at least had put a bridle on his lust and was in control again, even of his temper.

"You can come inside now, Duchess."

Miraculously, he sounded almost pleasant calling down to her. She couldn't know his tone was forced.

"You mean no one was in my room?"

"Didn't say that. You had a couple of visitors, but they've been disposed of. I'll meet you in the hall."

"No, wait!" she called up in a frantic whisper. "I can't go through the lobby. What if someone should see me like this?"

Colt stared down at her, glad the shadows didn't allow him to see her too clearly. So she was embar-rassed about being caught out in her nightclothes? She ought to worry more about letting him see her than some half-asleep desk clerk.

"You like flirting with danger, don't you?"

She misunderstood him completely. "It's not so great a distance. Couldn't you just reach over and lift me up?"

For a long while she saw nothing of his shadow, nor did he answer. Staring anxiously up at the end of the roof, she wondered what the problem was, or if he just hadn't heard her request. It wasn't as if he hadn't done it before. Lifting her up and out of the coach that day hadn't put much strain on him, and there wasn't that much difference in the height here.

She had been lucky so far that no one had come along to see her waiting there at the end of the porch. It had taken Colt more than just a few minutes to "dispose of" the intruders in her room. She shivered, wondering what he had meant by that. But she couldn't continue to wait there indefinitely. As they had traveled north, the temperatures had been grad-ually dropping, with a marked difference now between day and night. Tonight was downright frigid, or so it seemed in her scanty attire. Chills had begun attacking her the moment her fear had dissipated. She simply couldn't stand out here much longer.

"Colt?"

She didn't bother to whisper this time. If he had gone back inside to await her in the hall as he'd said, she was going to be quite annoyed with him, regard-less that he had just — what? Saved her again? She didn't really know what he had done, and wouldn't know until—

She jumped, his hand appeared so suddenly. So he had been there all along — and heard her. Now was not the time to upbraid him for making her wait while he decided whether to lend her a hand or not. In fact, she couldn't afford to upbraid him for anything, not unless she was willing to give him an excuse to quit, which she wasn't. And besides, she had already known how lacking he was in gentlemanly tenden-cies. Far be it for her to expect him to change his habits now just because she was trembling with cold and loath to show herself in a well-lit hotel lobby half dressed.

She returned his gun first, which he quickly hol-stered before extending his hand again. The problem now was that she couldn't quite reach his fingers, even up on tiptoe. She started to tell.him so, but she had a feeling this was the most she could hope for, that he wasn't going to lower that hand another inch, even if he could. For whatever reason, he didn't want to help her back up onto that roof, but she was more determined than he was.

She made it on the first leap, her fingers locking with his. But her feet went swaying through the air, and her fingers started to slip. She was about to cry out, anticipating a hard landing on her backside, when she was jerked up a bit so his other hand could grasp her wrist.

Dangling by only one arm sent pain shooting through her shoulder socket, but she was up and sit-ting on the edge of the roof so fast, there was no time to moan about it. Under the circumstances, however, she didn't feel inclined to thank her so-called savior, especially when an insistent tug forced her immediately to her feet.

Again she was about to upbraid him, scathingly this time, when his curt "Come on, dammit" made her grit her teeth instead and follow him up the slight incline to her window.

Here was another unexpected problem. Her hands, raised high, only just reached the window ledge, and she knew without a doubt that with what her arms had already been through, there was no way she could hoist herself up through that window.

She was loath to ask, but there was no help for it. "Could you please accommodate me once more with a boost up?"

She couldn't see his eyes moving down her body to the likely place he would have to touch to shove her through the window. His manhood, already half aroused just from his standing this close to her, came to full attention. There was no way in hell he could put his hands on her body and not do more than that.

Nor did he think he could bend down close to her legs to offer her foot the cradle of his hands and not break his control. Enough was enough.

"Not on your life, Duchess," he answered sharply and with finality.

Jocelyn's own control snapped at that point. "Well, I'm sorry, but I just can't do it myself. My arms hurt, I'm freezing, I'm tired… do you think I went flee-ing out my window and over the roof for the fun of it?"

"It's the middle of the damn night, woman. Who the hell is up and about at this hour?"

"You were," she replied stiffly. "And those gen-tlemen who stole into my room were. And who is to say there aren't more of them waiting below in the lobby?"

That was a damn good point, but he still wasn't going to put his hands anywhere near that luscious backside of hers. "All right, move over," he con-ceded with ill grace and vaulted through the window.

This was exactly what Colt had wanted to avoid, being in her room again, being there with her — alone.

He used to think there was nothing he couldn't withstand, no pain, no torture, no temptation — until he met her. Christ, even that sadistic bullwhacker Ram-say hadn't been able to break him. But this one little redhead was coming damn close without even trying. And he couldn't even fault her for it. No, he knew exactly where the blame lay — inside his pants.

Lust was making a mockery out of his will, and lacerating his pride and self-esteem to shreds. But it wasn't something that had ever taken control of him before, so he didn't know how to deal with it. All he knew was that he wanted this woman more than he had ever wanted anything before. And each time he saw her, his need seemed to escalate. It was enough to make a man want to cut his own throat.